


Be careful what you wish for (even if multiple orgasms are worth it)

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Chris is really into Peter's tits, Come Marking, Come Shot, Curses, Fairies, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, High Heels, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other, Peter is still decidedly a guy though, Sex Toys, Shopping, Sloppy Makeouts, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, despite his boobs and the fact that fairies stole his dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: It starts when Peter makes a careless comment when they are in the preserve - something casual, about how Scott was lucky he was dating a Kitsune and not a werewolf because if Kira wanted to murder him twice a month she’d doubtlessly succeed. 
One of the fairies buzzing close by takes offense. She skitter-floats forth in a burst of bright purple light, her voice a high-pitched twittering squeak when she rails against the insult. How dare he? How dare he insult a woman’s moon time? When he’s a werewolf and should know better? Oh, such an insensitive, pig-headed jerk, she would make sure he would know better.
***
Or, the one where Peter makes on PMS joke too many and fairies take his dick away to teach him a lesson; multiple orgasms and payback occur.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Trope Day, Lovelies!
> 
> Thanks to all the amazing people on discord and tumblr who made this possible <3 <3 <3 
> 
> If you think anything else should be tagged, please let me know
> 
> Now with _amazing_ [fan art by Flatbear! :D](http://rufferto9.tumblr.com/post/155978145584/belated-christmas-present)

It starts when Peter makes a careless comment when they are in the preserve - something casual, about how Scott was lucky he was dating a Kitsune and not a werewolf because if Kira wanted to murder him twice a month she’d doubtlessly succeed.

One of the fairies buzzing close by takes offense. She skitter-floats forth in a burst of bright purple light, her voice a high-pitched twittering squeak when she rails against the insult. How dare he? How dare he insult a woman’s moon time? When he’s a werewolf and should know better? Oh, such an insensitive, pig-headed jerk, she would make sure he would know better.

A bolt of green light hits Peter in the chest and he slumps down on the ground, the clearing bursting into noise and action as Scott chases after the departing creature.

Peter can’t hear any of it, knocked unconscious by magic.

**

The fairies are long gone when Peter comes to.

He scrambles against the cold ground and leaps up, only to topple over, his center of gravity all wrong.

He swears and the words make him pause, sounding far too high pitched.

With a sneaking suspicion, he looks down and - fuck, his v-neck is stretched taut over a pair of luscious breasts instead of tight pecs, and he suddenly feels very, very empty in his pants. Everything feels subtly, completely _off._

“Fuck!”

Peter swears up a blue streak and closes his eyes. This is not happening. This is what happens in fucking Star Trek or something, a fairy tale, a bedtime story, a warning - be good or fairies will steal your dick. He needs to - he needs to get out of here, he’s not letting any of the fucking kids see him like this. He already knows what pathetic jokes and cruelties they’d toss his way, so it’s better to give in to his instinct to run and hide -

Well, he can’t run. His shoes are too big on his feet, and his fucking jeans are so long he’s stumbling. He makes it to his car anyway and swears some more when he has to adjust the seat, the indignity not lost to him.

When he reaches to adjust the mirror, he starts. Because, fuck, he’s - well, he’s hot. Not that he isn’t always exquisitely attractive, thank you very much, but the woman looking back at him in the mirror is someone he’d immediately sit up and take notice of. Shit, if he had a dick it would be getting hard, the odd feeling at the pit of his stomach is just - off putting.

It’s his face, but it’s - not. He looks softer, somehow, his mouth a little less tight, his cheeks less hollow. There’s a roundness to his chin that wasn’t there before. Undeniably stunning, undeniably him, undeniably alien.

He moves to grip the steering wheel and stares at his hands- they’re - proportionate, they don’t look small compared to his now much thinner wrists, but compared to what should be there, what he should see, should feel, it’s wrong.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t crash on the drive back to his downtown apartment; he’s infinitely glad that there's an underground garage; a direct elevator to the penthouse would make it even better but he can only hope he gets back to his apartment unmolested.

There’s no one, and he’s thanking whatever cosmic power looks over wayward werewolves as he dashes into his apartment and slams the door shut behind him. It doesn’t make as satisfying a sound as it should and he realizes he must be _weaker_ now - he no longer has the full breadth of his quite impressive thank-you-very-much shoulders, the shirt hanging baggily over his arms but straining too much at the front.

Over his - over his breasts.

Peter inhales deeply and regrets it immediately; when he’s acutely aware of this new development on his chest, he’s also aware that his always-sensitive nipples are feeling much more so, like someone’s already been playing with them for a while now. The smooth fabric of his shirt brushing against the tight tips is enough to make him shiver, make him again feel like his dick should be getting hard. Instead, he’s feeling - empty. Slick. He’s been fingered open and dripping with lube, waiting to get fucked before, but this feels entirely different. 

Fuck this. He might as well check the goods.

He makes his way to the bedroom; when he sits down on the edge of the bed, it’s at the wrong height and he lands awkwardly, with a little oomph that sounds odd to his ears. Like this, his jeans cut to his hips harder and this is one of his less form fitting pairs; what he’s lost in his shoulders he’s gained in his hips. _At least my ass is still fantastic._

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Quickly, he pulls the zipper down and shimmies the jeans off his hips, feeling the red marks on his skin healing as soon as the denim is no longer pressing down. Thank fuck the spell didn’t shave his legs, he thinks as he toes off his too-large socks and shoes.

His shirt quickly follows and he groans when he lies back, surprised how good it feels when the tension in his shoulders eases. As he idly raises a hand to trace over his - no longer washboard, a little soft - stomach, he thinks about just what happened-

Clearly, the fairies were offended by what he’d said - which he supposes he can’t blame them - and now he’s stuck in this body; as if having a dick was what made him a man, but fairies were assholes. He knows fairy magic, enough of it anyway to know this cannot be permanent - he is not of a feminine nature, and he is a wolf at heart.

Moon-time, the fairy said, he thinks as he lifts a hand up to cup his breast; he hisses through his teeth, surprised at how tender the skin is, how big it feels in his hand when he knows he could’ve held it in his palm before this. He’ll have until the next full moon to play around with this body, most likely - he will have to go back, grovel a little, and make sure, but right now it seems that what his smart mouth has gotten him is a month of multiple orgasms.

He gasps when he pinches his nipple, the bolt of heat that goes through him making his - going into his clit, he thinks, gets his cunt wet.

Slowly, he grins into the empty room. Good thing he has an _extensive_ toy collection.

**********

Turns out, multiple orgasms make for a _really_ good night’s sleep. So good, in fact, that when Peter picks up his phone and sees it’s practically blown up with messages, he curses heartily, thumb scrabbling to tap the right parts on the screen because his hands are so fucking tiny.

Apparently everyone knows. Because Scott fucking McCall had gone after the fairy that did this and got the whole story out of her. He asks if there is anything Peter needs, anything the pack can do to make it easier for him to get through until, in the fairy’s words, _the peak of the moon has passed._

He closes his eyes and counts to ten.

_Thanks for confirming what I suspected_ , he texts Scott back. _I’m fine. I’ll just sit tight until next full moon._

If they already know, then there is no use hiding - or no reason for them to suspect that if he spends the next week in bed, delighting in all the newfound possibilities, well… they won’t suspect he is up to no good and show up midway, now will they?

Not that he would mind some of them - Melissa and Lydia spring to mind, when he suddenly realizes that he’d be able to go out and try lesbian sex - not that this made him a woman, he mused as he ran a hand through his hair, but that was more of a technicality at this point.

There is a message from Lydia - a selfie of her smirking as smug as any cat with a canary has ever been, simply accompanied by _ha_. And he supposes he deserves it. He shoots back a quick, _want to go shopping later?_ confident that she will decline.

There’s other texts he ignores - he is certain Deaton will ask him to visit so the druid can poke and prod at him, and Peter would rather shove a cactus in his newfound vagina than let the druid anywhere near him in this state. The one from Melissa he reads carefully - telling him Scott told her, and an offer to help. Always the nurse, even to the man who tore her son’s life apart. One of the many reasons he adores her, despite her lamentable taste in men. She, too, merits a reply. 

Phone tossed aside, he lays back and thinks about all the things he’s heard about detachable shower heads. But, breakfast first.

He gets up and again everything feels too big - he’s too short like this, his robe too big in a way that is unnerving, yet comfortable. His slippers are a bit too big, too, and he feels a little like he’s a child playing dress up when he makes his way to the kitchen.

Only to find out he can’t reach half the things on the upper shelves.

_Fuck._

His phone buzzes and he almost doesn’t check the message. Almost. He’s glad he does - it’s Lydia, telling him he’s on, that she’ll be over in the afternoon.

He groans and texts back, ok, not up for trying to tap out anything longer with fingers that are too small. His phone pings again almost immediately, Lydia confirming the time and telling him she’ll be bringing Melissa along. Which Peter is not opposed to - Melissa is a woman grown, and won’t try to dress him up like a teen girl. Yes, that sounds like an excellent afternoon.

When the second egg smashes on the floor, he swears and decides to give up on an omelette; a protein bar for breakfast it is, and then he is going to go straight back to bed until noon at least. If he doesn’t kill himself stumbling over his own feet first.

His phone buzzes again and he ignores it.

****

Chris doesn’t expect his phone to ring with the notification for an incoming video call; he picks it up and frowns. Why would Peter Hale be calling him?

But he knows better, after years of hunting and life in Beacon Hills, than to ignore a call, especially from an erstwhile ally. He flicks his thumb over the green button but the screen goes black; before he can ask what is going on, he hears a moan. A _distinctly_ female moan.

What the hell? Is Hale accidentally calling him during a booty call? That voice sounds familiar, but he just can't place it, the fact that she's clearly enjoying herself making him uncomfortable.

And then it hits him

Last night. The fairies.

That drawn out moan is Peter.

That wet sound he can now hear, ears straining, fingers gliding against slick flesh is Peter, it's Peter touching himself. Sliding his fingers inside his brand new pussy that Chris is suddenly _dying_ to taste. Just like that, Chris is achingly hard in his pants, the zipper biting into his cock painffully.

Chris closes his eyes, grip on the phone tightening. He should - he should end the call, he should not listen in, should not be even thinking about getting his cock out and fucking into his fist as he listens to Peter's groans and the slick sounds of his pussy being breached. Fuck, it sounds like the wolf is so wet he's soaking his sheets, like he's ready for a lot more than fingers.

If he hears another voice, he'll end the call. Chris grits his teeth and hits mute, hits speaker phone so that Peter's moans echo through his study. He knows what he's doing is wrong but fuck, it's been so long since he was with a woman, with anyone

He palms his cock through his jeans, bites down a hiss as he starts to undo the buttons. Peter sounds a little frustrated and there's a clattering noise, like he's rummaging through a drawer or something

" _Gotcha_ ," he hears Peter murmur, and while the voice is wrong the tone is entirely Peter, as is the slow _mmmm_ sound that comes over the phone, like he's - fuck, like he's getting something wet with his mouth.

He gets his cock out just as Peter groans throatily, the sound of shifting hips and the slick slide of flesh enough to tell Chris that fuck, Peter is shoving that toy in his cunt, is fucking himself on a hunk of silicone and making the kind of noises that would make an eunuch go hard.

Chris spits in his palm and lets himself imagine pressing into that tight wet heat. Until now, he's only ever fantasized about shutting the wolf up with his cock, about yanking those tight jeans down and plowing Peter's ass. But this is something else entirely.

Peter makes noises, small _uhs_ and _yeahs_ , and Chris thinks that muffled noise is maybe the wolf biting his lip trying to not to be too loud - an idea he finds absurd, that Peter would not be as loud and unashamed as he can, fuck, he wants to hear Peter _scream._

Peter's breath quickens and Chris grits his teeth, fights back the urge to just fuck his fist when he listens to the wolf's orgasm. There’s a bitten off little whine and a loud gasp that's followed by panting that makes him think Peter's tits must be bouncing and he wants to see, he wants to know what the wolf looks like now.

He curses the black screen, curses that the video is not intentional, that it must've fallen face down when Peter dropped it.

He thinks maybe that's it, maybe Peter is done but of course he isn't; there’s another deep drawn out moan and he can hear the sheets shift, can hear Peter moving around and then the wolf groans again, starts fucking that dildo into his pussy again.

Chris swears and has to strangle the base of his dick to not to come, to not spill on his hand like a fucking teenager. Of course Peter has werewolf stamina and no refractory period like this. A small traitorous voice tells him it just means Chris can make the wolf come on his cock time and time again, get him begging,

Peter's second orgasm comes fast on the heels of the first. Chris can tell it's coming, can hear it in the way Peter's breath catches, how the sound of his hips moving off the bed stills so he can just slide that toy in deep and good.

Chris speeds his hand up when Peter approaches his third, when the writhing and moans get slower but feel more intense, like this time he's really gonna have to work for it. His breath is coming in tight little pants and Chris can hear his fingers slipping around the base of the dildo, can hear how fucking wet he is. 

He hears Peter swear, again his identity unmistakable, and scramble for something else- he hears the wolf go _aha!_ and a loud buzz cuts through the airwaves. Fuck, he's got a vibrator.

Chris groans, of course he does, Peter is a vain, prissy bitch who wouldn't deny himself anything - so of course now less than 24 hours after he gained a pussy, he's able to shove a dildo deep inside himself even as he starts touching that buzzing toy on his clit.

Fuck, Chris can almost picture it, picture the tip of the toy pressing against Peter's clit with every bitten off _oh oh oh_ the wolf lets out. It's frantic and urgent, words slipping into the moans _yes_ and _fuck_ and _harder_ and _Chris_ -

The shock is enough to push Chris over the edge; he swears as he spills over his knuckles, cock jerking violently as the thought that Peter _fucking moaned his name_ slams through him. He comes harder than he has in years, black spots dancing in his vision: he is only dimly aware that he can hear Peter come, can hear his muffled cry as he reaches for the phone and fumbles to end the call.

_Fuck._

***

Peter finds out that as much as he enjoys the detachable shower head, he still prefers the more… traditional toys in his repertoire. But what matters is that by the time Lydia and Melissa show up, he’s no longer covered in sweat and other things. Even if it is a great look on him - the sight of himself in the full length mirror had been both startling and arousing.

Instead, he is cursing how there is barely anything in his house that still _fits_ him. He’s clad in a pair of sweatpants that feel a little tight across the hips, yet sag at the bottom and the waist with the drawstrings tied taut. He’s layered a tight t-shirt with a hoodie that has the stiffest zipper to keep his chest contained. He doesn’t want to fucking _jiggle._

He’s still swearing at his lack of shoes that don’t feel like fucking _canoes_ on his feet when the door chime goes off announcing his guests. He runs a hand through his hair and decides that them seeing his feet bare is not the worst thing that could happen. (He could be forced to wear… flip flops. Ugh, the mere idea is disgusting.)

He opens the door and comes face-to-face with Lydia and Melissa.

Who are _both_ taller than him.

_Fuck._

Lydia breezes past him in a cloud of strawberry blonde hair and expensive perfume, her _four inch heels_ clicking against the tile floor. Melissa is more sedate when she steps inside, but he can’t help but notice they are _both_ carrying bags.

“And here I thought you were going to _take_ me shopping,” he drawls as he makes his way to the living room where Lydia is eyeing his book shelf with a critical eye.

“You _want_ to leave the house wearing that?” Lydia raises an eyebrow and lifts the paper bag in her hand. “This is not even bare essentials, it’s to get you out of the house. 

And oh, Peter is actually really fucking grateful for that. Not that he will actually admit to it, snatching the bag from her hand. “Fine!”

He opens the bag and quickly rifles through; there’s a - sports bra, utilitarian underwear, a pair of jeans that look like they would fit him, and a dark t-shirt.

Lydia eyes him critically. “The jeans will be long, and you might have to wear one of your shirts. I didn’t expect you to be so well-endowed.”

And oh, that stings. “You know you would have only had to ask, sweetheart.”

That earns him a _look_ from Melissa; he grins at her, but she’s unaffected. She looks at him with what could almost be pity, if it weren’t so clinical.

“Are there any ill-effects? Any trouble adjusting? Anything about this you need help with?” Ah yes. That’s the nurse thing. Asking Peter if he knows how to - he is not going to even _think_ about that.

“Oh, you know I am quite familiar with a woman’s body, not that I ever anticipated being inside one _quite_ like this.” Peter smirks and yeah, he still got it, there’s a faintest hint of a blush on Melissa’s cheeks.

“Nevertheless, if you want me to help you arrange a visit to a gynecologist -”

Before she can finish the sentence, Peter spins around and makes a dignified escape to his bedroom to get changed. He does not need to see anyone for this, to be poked and prodded like an animal. The idea makes his stomach turn a little as he shrugs out of his clothes and starts pulling things out of the bag.

The underwear goes on easy; the bra- fuck, he’s only good at taking them off, his love of lingerie had never extended to bras on himself. How the fuck is this going to work? Apparently Lydia has some sympathy, as it’s the kind of a sports bra that’s closer to a top, something he can just pull over his head and situate over his tits. It’s tight but it’s not too uncomfortable; he runs a hand over the fabric and brushes against his nipple, hissing a little - still sensitive.

The jeans slide on fine, unlike his own - these have enough room in the thigh even though they’re still a bit baggy at the waist and long in the leg. Clearly, Lydia hadn’t expected him to… shrink. The feeling of zipping himself up without having to consider his dick in any way is discomfiting. There’s no belt, just the black t-shirt.

Only after he’s pulled it on, does he realize there’s glittering letters stretching across his chest - _Drama Queen_ in a bright, vicious pink.

“Very funny, Lydia” he tells her when he exits his bedroom under the judgemental gazes of the two women.

“You wouldn’t be wearing it if it didn’t suit you.” Lydia says casually and examines him head to toe. “I expected you to be taller. But it’s only logical if they swapped you over instead of just giving you the snip, you’d be of an equitable height as a woman.”

“Oh you will find I’m far from _neutered_ , sweetheart.” Peter does not like the implications of her words. “Now, did you have any shoes for me or shall I simply wear my own, looking like a damn clown?”

“We didn’t plan on it but I had a pair in the car that should fit you okay.” Melissa lifts a pair of Danskos. Oh, the indignity. Maybe he should wear the flip-flops instead.

He sighs. “Fine.”

He goes to grab for his keys and realizes something. “Lydia, I have no pockets.”

The banshee smiles. “Welcome to women’s fashion, Peter.”

Peter briefly contemplates banging his head on the wall, but fuck it. He should still be able to wear a jacket, and those had pockets. “Let me get my phone and we’re good to go.” 

His phone is right where he left it on his bed; he frowns when he sees the battery nearly drained, the screen lit - it looks almost as if - his eyes widen when he sees the call log; a half an hour video call to a number he shouldn’t even have. He checks the time, that was when he - oh. Oh.

Peter smirks. He suddenly has a very good idea of just what kept Chris Argent on the line for that long.

***

Peter is still sulking a little when they get to the Beacon Hills Mall.

“Now, you have two options,” Lydia tells him when they step in through the glittering archway of the main entrance, the best place to start any expedition as far as she is concerned. “Speciality shops for everything, or Macy’s.”

She knows both have their advantages - speciality shops are, well, speciality, but Macy’s has everything they need to outfit “Petra” and her sob story of lost luggage in less than half the time than individual stores would take.

“Why not mix and match?” Melissa speaks up. “Get you fitted at Victoria’s Secret and then go from there.”

Peter shakes his head and Lydia expects him to offer to buy Melissa half of Agent Provocateur on the spot; instead he just says “I’m good with Macy’s.”

“Well it’s either Macy’s or an hour’s drive to Nordie’s in Beacon Heights.” 

Lydia smiles smugly. She knows Peter has an irrational hatred of Beacon Heights, going back to his teenage years. Something she shouldn’t know, and yet, some of their involuntary confinement - on her part - went both ways.

“Fine.” Peter’s sigh is resigned. “Lead the way.”

“Be glad I am not taking you to Target,” Lydia arches an eyebrow. “You’d probably get hives.”

The sales ladies at Macy’s know Lydia by name and loyalty card number, and they’re greeted enthusiastically. Lydia brushes their suggestions aside, saying they will be fine, and they will ask for help if they need it. And because the sales staff at Macy’s is _the best_ , they get left alone when they frog march Peter towards the lingerie.

She quite enjoys the dawning horror on his face. Peter Hale might be fashion savvy and able to pick prom dresses for Allison, but he has not yet encountered Lydia on a _mission._

“You look about a D, maybe a DD,” Lydia gives him a critical eye. “Let me pick up a few basics for you to try on and we’ll go from there.”

There’s a certain vindication in the way she picks up the scratchiest lace and the pokiest underwires - these are unlikely to fit, as they're more just to gauge what size they should go for. Melissa gives her a look, but doesn’t challenge her. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of mostly innocent payback, is there?

Peter takes the bras from her with exaggerated politeness, then disappears into the fitting room.

She glances at Melissa, who is also smiling with a certain satisfaction, and waits.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually - _“A little help here?”_

His voice is plaintive, a little desperate, and music to her ears.

Melissa shakes her head. “Boys. I am going to give him a hand, he has nothing I haven’t seen before - in general terms!” She hastens to add.

“Of course.”

Lydia can’t wait until they hit the shoe department.

****

It’s been nearly a week since the incident in the preserve, and the - other incident that came after. Chris has done his damned best to not to think about it, not think about what Peter sounded like when he - Chris isn’t thinking about it.

No matter how much his traitorous dick reminds him about it, late at night when he’s going to sleep, or when he’s trying to grab a quick shower that jerking off thinking about burying his head between Peter Hale’s legs should not be a part of.

He deals with it. He is a _hunter_ , control is paramount to him. He can keep this - indiscretion under wraps, can act like nothing’s changed except for the obvious, and concentrate on what he can and should be doing.

When Derek calls him over, asking about the bestiary, he goes. Because that is what he does now, he helps a pack of werewolves because that is what his daughter wants. Derek is waiting for him at the loft, together with Lydia, Stiles and Scott who are all bent over another set of books.

“Good you could come,” Derek says warmly. “We’re not sure about some of the translation.”

Chris nods, and for the next few minutes, everything is fine. He’s giving Lydia an impromptu lesson in medieval French when there is a sound, a sharp clack. A high heel hitting metal, then a steady click-clack.

He looks up, towards the back of the loft, dreading what he knows he is going to come face to face with.

Peter is descending the spiral staircase like a queen; head held high, the six-inch heels he’s wearing clicking on the steel, her denim-clad legs looking a mile long; the sound almost hypnotic but not as much as the way his _tits_ are bouncing with every step; Chris can see the gorgeous swell past the too-low neckline, the V even deeper than before. Fuck, he can see the outline of fat nipples through the thin fabric, can tell Peter’s not bothered with a bra.

He’s instantly, achingly hard.

“Dude!” Scott’s voice is scandalized and Chris knows all eyes are on him, his reaction unmistakable to the werewolves. He watches the smirk that spreads on Peter’s lips, the expression unmistakable even though his face is - different.

“Well, well, well.” Peter’s voice is throaty and he stops at the bottom of the stairs, eyes zeroing in on Chris.

Chris does the only thing he can; he flees.

Without a word he stands up, stifles the wince at the way his jeans bite into his erection, turns his back to the pack, and makes for the elevator.

He’s too slow - the door doesn’t slide all the way in time, doesn’t keep Peter from slithering into the elevator with him. Then and only then does it close with a heavy clang, trapping him with the wolf.

“That was rude, Christopher,” Peter practically purrs as he steps closer, the dissonance of hearing heels still strong. Peter is at height with him like this, even though Chris knows Peter has lost height, has lost the breadth of his shoulders. He tries to keep his eyes on Peter’s, tries to not to let his gaze dip down, to the glimpse of tantalizing flesh.

“Don’t,” he manages to choke the words out, Peter is not wearing perfume, but Chris can recognize the smell of the wolf’s shampoo, the same evergreen scent he’s always wearing. The wolf is standing too close, and Chris knows he should pull a gun, should -

Peter tilts his head and laughs. “Really, Christopher. I expected better.”

Chris’s heartbeat hammers in his ears, his gut tightening even as he has to fight down the urge to just reach out and touch - “You have no right to expect anything of me.”

“Funny, I thought our little call the other day said different.” Peter smirks, and Chris knows the wolf can tell he’s not unaffected. “Here I thought I could expect a little more.”

“Like what?” the words come out before Chris can stop himself.

Peter makes a little humming noise, and something inside Chris snaps. He surges forward and grabs the wolf, buries a hand in the still-short, dark hair and presses their mouths together.

Peter moans into the kiss, hands coming up to dig into Chris’s shoulders as the wolf lets him ravish, opens up under the onslaught.

The wolf whines when Chris gets a hand on his breasts, rubs his thumb over a nipple,  
"Of course you'd have gorgeous tits," Chris mutters into the kiss, "You show off enough as it is."

Only Peter could moan in a mocking way, back arching, pressing closer to Chris.

He has half a mind to keep the wolf's head from hitting the wall when he pushes Peter against it, traps him between his body and the unyielding metal. Even like this, even with soft curves pressing into him instead of firm muscle, Peter is still solid, is still nipping at his lips and urging him on.

When his thigh slips between Peter's legs, the noise that escapes those red lips is a desperate groan; Peter rocks his hips, tries to chase friction and fuck, it's such a good look on him.

Chris can't help it, he gets his mouth on Peter's neck, sucks and bites at the tender smooth skin. His neck is not as thick, no longer corded with muscle at the junction of the shoulder where Chris has fantasized sinking his teeth into countless of times. Peter's gasps and moans are punctuated by "fuck-" and "yes-" as Chris trails his mouth lower, the marks from his teeth and beard healing far too quickly.

Chris swears when he yanks at the thin fabric of Peter's shirt, he was right, there's nothing stopping him from getting his mouth on Peter's breasts, for latching onto a nipple and making him cry out.

Fuck, it's been too long since Chris did this, since he got to bury his face in a pair of breasts, suck and lap and make her - make him whine in need and pull his hair. Peter sounds like he's getting close, his hips moving frantically against Chris's thigh, his whines getting higher in pitch.

Every sound Peter makes goes straight into Chris's dick and for a moment he thinks he should hit the stop button, should just fuck him right here, spin him around and slam into his wet cunt and make him scream loud enough for everyone to hear -

The realization they're still in the fucking elevator, that there's wolves upstairs who can hear and smell everything that's going on here barely chills his ardour, but it's enough.

The elevator grinds to a slow halt, the last jolt enough to make Peter moan as their bodies press together. Chris lifts his head, looks Peter in the eye; the wolf's eyes are an eerie ring of blue around the lust blown pupils. 

Chris pulls back, lets go of Peter; the wolf squeaks indignantly and scrambles for balance, nearly falls flat on his ass in those fucking heels as Chris pulls the door open and goes to leave.

**

Peter doesn't fall down but it's a close thing; he's been able to walk and more in heels for years, but he's so off balance with everything.

There's a burning need in the pit of his belly, his cunt throbbing with dissatisfaction now that he's no longer grinding against Argent's muscled thigh; he shivers when a burst of cool air - the front door, opening - hits his spit-slick breasts, still hanging from his top and sore from Argent's mouth and hands.

Fuck.

Peter yanks his top backup and follows Argent, Chris, because Peter's gonna be on first name basis with the man he intends to ride into oblivion. He hasn't gotten far. The hunter is getting into his car, the ostentatious, big SUV with the half an army's worth of guns in the trunk.

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter knows it's crazy to just corner a hunter like this, to drape himself over Chris's back when he's going for the car door. Peter's lips are close enough to brush against the shell of his ear and he nips a little too hard.

"I'm not fucking you in Derek's elevator," Chris grits out, and Peter can smell the arousal rolling off the hunter, can feel the tension in his back, and it's really fucking hot.

Peter smirks. "That's all right, we can go back to my place. Or you can bend me over the hood of your car. 

He licks his lips, tongue flicking against Chris's ear as heat clenches inside him at the idea. "Or do you want me on the back seat? Oh, _Chris_ , I've never been with a boy before." A blatant lie, Peter has been fucked plenty, but this body is still virginal in the most archaic sense 

Chris growls and oh, Peter finds himself pinned against the car, the hunter's face inches from his, bodies pressed together. He can feel the cock digging into his belly, pressing just above where he wants it the most.

Chris's eyes are dark with lust, the crystal clear blue only a ring as they stare at each other for what feels like an eternity and then the hunter is kissing him, hard and almost violent and Peter melts into the kiss. He had no idea Chris could kiss like this, but he's not complaining. He wants more, he wants to fuck and he lets go of Chris long enough to scramble for the door handle.

Peter isn't sure if it's Chris shoving him into the car or if he pulls the hunter along, he just knows that one moment they're still standing and the next he's on the backseat, with Chris on top of him.

He curses when Chris rolls his hips, lets him feel just how hard the hunter is, and it feels dissonant to not to have his dick throb in response, to press back; instead there's another flood of slick, another hot throb in his core that has Peter spreading his legs wider, hooking an ankle around Chris's legs and pulling him closer.

"Dammit, Peter, " Chris growls into his neck between bites and oh, that’s just music to his ears.

He's about to comment but then Chris pinches his nipple hard, enough for a flare of mixed pain and pleasure spark though his nerves and all Peter can do is gasp; Chris does it again, only to move to put his mouth on it and fuck, fuck, fuck, even through the fabric the feel of wet heat is incredible.

He's not sure what he wants more, the hunter's mouth or his cock but one thing is sure, he wants to get off _now._

As if hearing his thoughts, Chris's hand slips between their bodies and presses down right on the seam of Peter's jeans, gets that hard ridge of fabric rubbing over the right spot. Peter clenches around nothing and whines, hips bucking against Chris's hand. It feels so fucking good-

"Gonna make you come like this," Chris's voice is low when he speaks, "Gonna get you so wet for me. I know you can go more than once."

And oh, yes, fuck, Chris knows, knows because he listened to Peter fucking himself on toys, listened in to Peter thinking about how it would be like to get fucked by Argent, by _Chris_ and fuck it, Peter isn't ashamed of it.

"Get on with it," he half-gasps, half snarls.

Chris's grin is more wolf than hunter. "Maybe I should take my time," he muses, thumb pressing just above where Peter wants it, breath ghosting over over-sentisized skin

Peter doesn't know what his expression looks like but Chris's eyes darken and the hunter is leaning forward, kissing him hard.

"But I won't," Chris pats against his lips, fingers pressing down just right, just so Peter’s hips can rock into delicious friction that's ratcheting the tension in his skin higher. "I've waited too fucking long for this, 

"A week isn't that long, Argent," Peter bites out between kisses, eyes falling shut as he chases his orgasm.

"Oh, longer than that. Weeks. Month." Chris's breath comes in hot pants and Peter can smell precome over his own slick, knows the hunter is close too. "I've wanted to fuck you so bad, this is the last straw - showing off these -" and fuck, the pinch on his nipple takes Peter by surprise and he's moaning, body trembling on the edge - 

Another cruel pinch and Peter is coming, back arching off the leather seat as he cries out.  
He's throbbing all over, conscious of how empty his cunt is even as Chris rubs him slowly, prolonging the waves of pleasure that ebb and flow through him.

"Bastard," Peter gasps out as he falls back bonelessly, the back of his head thumping against the door.

Chris laughs and moves back, lifts himself so he can get at his jeans. Peter licks his lips as he watches the hunter pull out his cock, hard and leaking. The scent hits Peter's nostrils and he groans, hips bucking up under Chris’s weight.

But Chris doesn't try to yank Peter's jeans down, doesn't shove at the denim still between their bodies; instead he leans forward, eyes meeting Peter’s as his hand rucks up Peter’s spit-soaked shirt, palms his breast with intent.

Peter knows what the hunter wants and fuck, it shouldn't be this hot; he shouldn’t want to get marked, shouldn’t want to get covered in a hunter’s scent but the way Chris is biting into his lower lip, all that intensity directed to Peter - yeah, that’s really doing it for him. The way the tip of Chris’s cock is bumping against the tender underside of his breasts, leaving behind wet smears sends sparks of pleasure dancing along his skin. Peter’s a little bit hypnotized by the way his tits move, the way they sway, and there’s a stab of envy, because fuck, he wants to be the one coming, the one spurting white all over that gorgeous swell.

“Do it,” he breathes, moving his hand to close around Chris’s.

The hunter groans, deep in his chest and then he’s coming all over their hands, all over Peter’s breasts, splattering them both with his seed.

***

Chris can still taste himself on his lips when they get to Peter’s apartment. He’d put his mouth on Peter after he came, licked it all off the tender skin while the wolf gripped his hair and swore at him to go lower. He had wanted to, had gotten the button of Peter’s jeans open with his teeth, caught sight of the black lace panties and would have torn them off, if not for the fact that they got interrupted; the back of a car on a dark street not the most discreet spot for a tryst. 

The elevator ride is much shorter, but no less fraught. Peter’s eyes are dilated and another bruise is blooming and disappearing on his neck as they step out, as Chris watches the wolf key in the code, get the door open. He’s not sure where Peter’s heels went, but even without them there’s a sway to the wolf’s steps now that has him hypnotized.

As soon as the door locks, Chris is on him, kissing the wolf with fervor. “Bed,” he growls, “Or I’ll take you right here on your floor.”

Peter wraps his thigh around Chris’s hip, ends up with both legs wrapped around the hunter’s waist as Chris lifts him up and carries him towards the bedroom.

Chris notices the mirrors right away. “You’re so fucking vain;” he says between biting kisses, “Did you watch yourself when you used those toys? Did you look at the mirror and see how your tits bounce, how your cheeks flush, how wet you get?” 

And fuck, the sound Peter makes goes straight to his dick; if he wasn’t already getting hard again that would have done it, would have had him straining against his jeans, grinding against the wolf.

He stumbles a little as he strides over to Peter's ridiculously big bed, but he still manages to not to just throw Peter down as much as he'd like to; even so Peter makes a little _oof_ noise when he lands, falling back against the heavy pillows. 

Chris is on him in a heartbeat; another hungry kiss only paused when he pulls the wolf's top over his head. He doesn't tear Peter's jeans off with his teeth but it's a close thing; the wolf kicks the denim away, left there on the bed with nothing but black lace panties between Chris and his goal

When Peter tries to grip his hair, he knocks the hands away. "No claws," he says with a grin.

Peter growls and spreads his legs wider, but his hands curl into the sheets again. "My sheets are worth more than your skin, Argent"

Chris laughs. "But can they do this?" He leans forward, running his tongue over Peter's inner thigh; in response Peter moans, back arching.

"Fuck, you taste good," Chris's voice is raw when he keeps lapping up the slick covering Peter's thighs. "So fucking wet for me"

He has to pin Peter's hips to the bed, has to dig his hands into the soft flesh of his thighs as he slowly runs his tongue over the edge of the lace.

The lace tears under his teeth and Peter makes a half-hearted protest that turns into a deep, catty groan when Chris can finally delve his tongue inside him, can finally bury his face between Peter’s thighs with nothing in the way

He's thought about Peter's dick before, thought about how it's probably thick and heavy to go with his sturdy jaw and thick neck; he never contemplated this, never thought about sliding his tongue into wet heat and making Peter moan.

Peter keens and bucks his hips hard when Chris first touches his tongue to his clit, a teasing little flick to see what will happen. Chris is going to take his time, going to make sure he learns just what makes Peter Hale come on his tongue and beg for more

It doesn't take long until Peter's thighs are trembling, until he's whining high in his throat as Chris finds the right spot, face dripping with slick. He’s as relentless in this as he is in hunting, lashing against Peter until the wolf practically arches off the bed at the force of his orgasm, howling.

Chris doesn’t relent, doesn’t give Peter a chance to catch his breath; instead he slides two fingers inside the wolf, hissing at the inhuman heat of him as he clenches around Chris’s fingers.

He looks up as he curls his fingers and seeks for his goal and meets Peter’s bright blue eyes. Peter looks _wrecked_ , mouth open, face flushed and those damned tits heaving with every breathy moan. Chris groans, fighting the urge to hunch his hips into the mattress, to chase a little friction to alleviate just how hard he is, how much he’s enjoying getting Peter Hale off. 

“You look so good like this,” he murmurs as he slides another finger in, Peter’s breath hitching as he finds the right angle. “Gonna make you come again, get you off harder than any toy.“

Chris lowers his head and Peter swears, hips bucking up, trying to get Chris to go deeper, go harder. Chris laughs against Peter’s heated skin and nips the soft skin of his inner thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise that heals immediately before he resumes his ministrations. It doesn’t take long until Peter is wailing again, gushing against Chris’s face and _tearing_ through the sheets in his hands.

“Fuck, _Chris_ ,” Peter pants, and hearing his name on those lips, hearing how utterly wrecked Peter sounds makes Chris throb in his jeans. He’s only dimly aware that he’s still fully clothed while Peter is completely naked, the last scrap of lace having fallen off his hips ages ago. It’s almost enough to distract him from what Peter says next.

“Bet - bet your wife kept you on your knees, it’s a wonder she ever let you fuck her long enough to knock her up.”

** 

Peter sees Chris’s eyes darken and for a moment he thinks he miscalculated, that he fucked up in his post-orgasmic haze by mentioning his wife and daughter.

But there’s no gun, no knife, no curse; instead, the hunter smiles slowly, white teeth glinting in the low light. “Oh, you’ll see I can fuck you just fine.”

Before Peter can protest the hunter is on him, big hands grabbing him by the waist and flipping him over. It’s disorienting and painful, his breasts taking the brunt of the impact even as Chris yanks his hips up, gets Peter on his knees with his face down in the sheets.

Peter can hear the zipper, loud even over the heartbeat hammering though his ears and the scent of precome hits his nose over the smell of sweat and sex that’s permeating the room. He whines, he fucking whines without meaning to, his back arching because he wants _more_ , feels empty after the hunter withdrew his fingers, after getting that taste.

There’s no pause, no moment of hesitation; Chris leans forward and Peter groans when he feels himself being breached, feels the hunter sliding inside him in one long stroke. It feels nothing like a toy, nothing like being fucked when he’s - not like this, it feels huge, it feels _good_ , pleasure sparking along his nerves as he’s filled, getting fucked like never before.

Chris doesn’t let him adjust, just pulls his hips back and thrusts in again and again, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has Peter moaning, back arching because it feels so fucking good, nothing like when he fucked himself with a toy, so much _better_.

He whines when Chris slows down, but it’s only a fraction of a moment, a slight change in angle that lets the hunter fuck him harder, deeper, hit him _just there oh god yes_ \- Lets Chris wrench another sudden orgasm out of him, the pleasure crashing through him sharp and sudden.

Peter moans and Chris - fuck, he’s laughing breathlessly, not slowing down, cock sliding in and out of Peter’ s oversensitive body: It’s too much, too good, completely overwhelming; Peter feels like he’s going to burst, like the deep hot throb in his belly is never going to stop and he can’t help it, he moans out the hunter’s name, he begs for it. 

He’s not sure what he’s begging for, for the hunter to stop, to give him more; he just knows his voice is breaking, his body twisting under the hunter in throes of need and desperation. His body is convulsing around the hunter’s cock, throbbing with want. He tries to move, to get a hand under his body but Chris growls, lets go of his hip and slaps his hand away, pins it on the mattress and grinds into him, gets Peter howling. He knows he needs Chris to - needs him to - “ _Please, fuck_ , give it to me, use your fingers, touch me, touch my clit-“

And oh god, Chris does. With a growl the hunter snaps his hips forward, hammering into Peter; he leans forward, gets his teeth into Peter’s shoulder, gets a hand around Peter to touch him - Peter cries out when Chris’s fingers flick rapidly over his clit, a pinprick of fiery pleasure that’s sending him into oblivion as he comes with a cry of, _“Christopher!”_

Everything whites out for a moment as he can feel more than hear the hunter groan, feels a hot rush inside him against his overstimulated flesh and then they’re both collapsing onto the bed in boneless exhaustion, Chris barely having the presence of mind to not to crush Peter.

Peter feels a little like he’s floating, come-dumb and senseless as he blinks, and it’s almost as if the room spins, every nerve of his body singing with sated pleasure. “That was - “

“Never doubt I can fuck you,” Chris snorts, but he’s breathless, too, and Peter can feel the tremors going through the hunter’s thighs now, feel the strain in his arms.

Peter smirks. “Chris, I am only going to have this body for a few more days.” The full moon is almost close enough to tug at him, make him wilder, make him _more_. “You think I am going to waste the ability to have multiple orgasms?”

Chris shakes his head, bread rubbing against Peter’s breast, the wolf hisses, still sensitive but Chris only laughs and leans forward to flick his tongue over it, to send a delicious shudder through Peter’s sore body. “You know I am not going to stop wanting to fuck you when you turn back, Peter. I’ve wanted to bend you over far too long.”

And maybe Peter isn’t the only one who’s come-dumb right now, but he can’t see a downside to this.


End file.
